Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  “I’ll put her in the backyard and disable the pig door right now,” I say. “And I’m going to get the aggression under control, I promise. I did some reading last night on the mini pig sites and got some good advice.”

  Diana nods, swiping the tears from her cheeks with her soggy tissue. “Sounds good. Thank you.

  I start toward the gate leading to the backyard, but stop before I’ve made it off the walk.

  If Wanda isn’t the reason she’s crying, then…

  Don’t ask. It’s none of your business, and you don’t care anyway. It’s not like you’re friends.

  No, we’re not friends. But I do care. I don’t like seeing her cry.

  “So why aren’t you young and hopeful anymore?” I ask, telling myself I’ll head straight for the backyard if she offers a smartass response.

  Instead, she sniffs and her shoulders curl forward. “The job interview.”

  “Bad?” I take a tentative step forward.

  “Yeah. Really bad.” She props her elbows on her knees and drops her chin into her hands with another sniff. “They laughed at me. In the mean-girl way.”

  I frown. “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they run a trendy clothing store and I wore a sundress I bought five years ago to the interview,” she says, drawing my attention to the soft-looking yellow-checked dress she’s wearing. “And I wasn’t wearing enough makeup. Or the right shoes.”

  “You don’t need makeup,” I say gruffly, wishing I could give the jerks who made her cry a piece of my mind. “And what the hell do shoes have to do with whether you take good pictures?”

  She looks up at me, eyes shining. “Nothing. And I normally wouldn’t care what a bunch of superficial jerks thought of me, but I needed that job. And they didn’t even look at my resume or portfolio.” Her eyes roll skyward. “I mean, they looked, but I could tell they weren’t seeing it, you know? They were seeing that I was a fashion disaster with scuffed sandals who doesn’t moisturize enough.”

  She sucks in a breath, her bottom lip trembling. “One of them gave me lotion samples on the way out because ‘women in their thirties need to take moisturizing seriously,’ but…” Her features crumple as she finishes in a pitiful wail, “But I’m only twenty-seven and I’m too poor to afford fancy lotions and creams!”

  I sit down next to her, putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her in for a hug. “Hey, don’t cry. Forget those bitches. You would have hated working for them anyway. You’ll find something way better. I know you will.”

  She leans into me, not seeming to mind that I’m sweaty and gross from practice and the bike ride home. “But what if I don’t? What if I should have stayed in the woods with the animals and trees and other things that aren’t disgusted by my hideous, old-before-my-time face, oversize pores, and lack of fashion sense?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it.

  She looks up at me, her expression so stricken that I hurry to assure her, “I’m laughing because that’s ridiculous. Your face is beautiful. You’re beautiful. Those women were probably just jealous.”

  “No, they weren’t,” she sniffs.

  “Yes, they were. When I first met you, I thought you were a teenager you look so young. The last thing you have to worry about is being old before your time, or needing a bunch of expensive creams.”

  She swipes at her cheeks, but I can feel the tension beginning to seep from her muscles. “That’s because it was dark. And you’re a dude. Dudes are bad at guessing how old women are.”

  I make a noncommittal sound.

  “But I like that you asked how old I was,” she adds in a softer voice. “That you wanted to make sure I was old enough to roll around with on the sand. That was sweet. And classy.”

  “I’m a sweet, classy guy.” I rub my palm gently up and down her bare arm. “When I’m not being the guy you like to fight with, of course.”

  She shifts away, but not too far away, and looks up, meeting my gaze. “I don’t like to fight. Honestly, I don’t.”

  I study her eyes, amazed at how soft and warm they are when she’s not pissed at me. “Me, either. I hate it, actually. I don’t like seeing people upset, let alone when I know I’m the one who’s pissing them off.”

  “You’re a people pleaser,” she observes, her eyebrows doing that rippling thing they do when she’s thinking.

  “I guess so,” I admit. “I just want to be the nice guy. For a long time after my dad bailed, it was just me, my two older sisters, and my mom. I got an up close and personal look at what assholes do to the women in their lives. Way before I was old enough to date, I knew I didn’t want to be one of them.”

  Diana cocks her head. “So why aren’t you living happily ever after, Tanner Nowicki? As a real life sweetheart with a sexy job and a body that won’t quit, I would think you would have met Miss Right by now. Is it Wanda cramping your style, or do you have creepy secret habits I haven’t observed yet?”

  “I don’t think I have any creepy habits.” I shrug uncomfortably, trying not to think too much about the nice things she said. Just because she thinks I have a body that won’t quit doesn’t mean she wants to do anything more than sit next to that body on the porch. “My last relationship was on the rocks when I got drafted. We broke up before I moved, and since I’ve been in Portland I’ve been too focused on the game to date much.”

  Her brow furrows. “Do you find your job stressful? I imagine it would be. I mean, Brendan never acts stressed, not about hockey, anyway, but he’s a weirdo.”

  I smile. “In what way?”

  “He’s so chill. Always has been. Even when he was a newborn. My parents said he hardly ever cried.” She sniffs and a spark of her usual mischief flashes in her eyes. “So they were completely unprepared for me.”

  “Bad baby?”

  “The worst, according to the stories. But since I can’t remember any of that, I prefer to believe my parents’ claims of colic screams at all hours of the day and night are exaggerated.” She nudges my knee with hers. “What about you?”

  “Good baby. Though, allegedly, I liked to eat a lot.”

  Diana smiles, one of those sunny grins that brings out the gold flecks in her brown eyes. “No, I meant the game. Does being in the NHL stress you out?”

  “Not really. Not most of the time, anyway. Hockey’s always been the one thing I’m really good at. But I had a rough start to the season last year.” I roll my shoulders, the memories of those first few weeks enough to make my muscles ball up in stress knots. “It got better, but if I want to stay with the Badgers, I’ve got to bring it from game one this season. No backsliding or spacing out.”

  She’s quiet for a long time, but I can tell her wheels are spinning. Her eyes are searching my face, and her brows are arching and bending in ways I didn’t know eyebrows could arch and bend.

  Finally, I can’t help but laugh.

  “What?” she asks, blinking.

  I shake my head. “Nothing. I just…” I trace one of her pale brows with my finger, an intimacy she allows, making my voice huskier as I add, “You do funny things with your eyebrows.”

  Her lips quirk into a smile that’s a little shy and completely adorable. “I know. I can’t help it. That’s where my thoughts go.”

  “I like it. And you look like sunshine in this dress. I would have hired you in a heartbeat, just to have you around to brighten up the joint.”

  She swallows, her grin fading.

  “What’s wrong?” I wait for her to tell me I’ve overstepped my bounds again and tripped her “Someone’s Trying to Pick Me Up” radar.

  “Nothing.” She bites her bottom lip. “Actually, there is something. Can I ask a favor?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “Can you to take Wanda outside and stay out there for ten or fifteen minutes?”

  Now it’s my turn to blink. “Why’s that?”

  “I may have done something…” Her eyebrows telegraph guilt as her gaze slides to the right, l
ingering on the rosebushes.

  “Done something,” I echo. “Something like what?”

  “Something to get revenge that I’m regretting right now…”

  I withdraw my arm from around her shoulders. “Revenge for what?”

  “For Wanda biting me and you taking her out to play fetch afterward like she isn’t a witch in need of an attitude adjustment,” Diana says, lifting her hands into the air in surrender. “But like I said, I regret it now. And I don’t want to get in a fight after you’ve been so nice. I mean, in my opinion what I did isn’t that big a deal, but Justin told me this particular thing really gets under your skin, so…”

  My gaze narrows at Cruise’s name, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck. “Justin gave you prank advice?”

  She nods, nose wrinkling. “Sorry.”

  “Show me.” I stand, reaching a hand down to her, curling my fingers in a beckoning motion when she hesitates. “Come on. I won’t be mad. I just want to see.”

  She shakes her head. “No, you don’t. You really don’t.”

  “I need to see,” I insist. “If I’m going to teach Justin a lesson about spreading stories outside the locker room, I need to make sure the punishment fits the crime.”

  Diana stands, fingers tangling nervously together in front of her. “Oh no, please don’t. Let me run upstairs and fix this, and then forget I said anything, okay? I don’t want to be the reason you and Justin start prank-warring again. That’s not going to help you stay focused and at the top of your game when the season starts.”

  I start toward the front door, but Diana stops me, grabbing my elbow with both hands and holding on with surprising strength.

  “Do not go upstairs,” she says, eyes wide.

  “I’m going upstairs.”

  She shifts in front of me, so close her sandals are on the toes of my tennis shoes. “No, Tanner. You can’t. I won’t let you.”

  “And how are you going to stop me, Squirt?” I ask, keenly aware of her strawberry-and-soap scent and how much I would like to kiss that stubborn mouth of hers.

  “Call me that again and you’re going to regret it.” She lifts her chin, bringing her lips closer to mine.

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she sways closer still, until her breasts are mere inches from my chest.

  I hold her gaze as the air between us grows thick, loaded with dangerous possibilities. “I don’t think so, Daniels. I think you’re all talk and no action.”

  “The mannequins I put in your bed would indicate otherwise,” she says, her breath catching as I slip my arm around her waist, drawing her against me.

  “You put mannequins in my bed?”

  She nods, lids drooping to half-mast as her focus shifts from my eyes to my mouth and lingers there. “I did. How does that make you feel?”

  “Repulsed,” I say, loving the soft sigh that escapes her lips as my hand slips down to squeeze the uninjured side of her ass through the thin cotton of her dress. “I may never sleep in my bed again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not,” I shoot back, well aware that most people think my irrational fear of mannequins is hilarious.

  “I am. I swear.” Her arms drift around my neck, where her fingers thread into my still-damp hair.

  “I’m sweaty,” I warn, backing her toward the door.

  “I don’t care,” she says.

  “You like me dirty?” I pin her against the warm wood, my arms on either side of her up-turned face.

  “I do.” Her nails dig lightly into my neck. “I’d like to get you even dirtier, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Might be hard to do if everything below your neck is still off-limits.” I catch the strap of her sundress, running my finger beneath it, desperate for a taste of her sun-warmed skin. “I thought you were cake and I was on a diet?”

  “It’s okay to cheat on a diet every now and then, though, right?” Her breath comes faster as I cup her breast through the soft cotton of her dress, deliberately avoiding the tight nipple beading beneath the fabric. “As long as you go back to making healthy choices after?”

  Healthy choices…

  There is nothing healthy about this. Fucking my captain’s sister is a serious breach of the Badger code and a good way to end up on the shit list of every guy on the team. But even if there were no bro code violation on the line, getting naked with my roommate—a woman I’ll have to run into every day between now and whenever she finds another place to live—is plain stupid, especially considering what I know about this woman so far.

  Diana doesn’t want a relationship or even a steady fuck buddy. She wants to get dirty with me and then go back to treating me like a temptation best avoided.

  As much as I would like to get that tight nipple in my mouth and Diana on top of me, riding my cock until she comes screaming my name, this is a bad idea. So even though I’m as hard as a goal pipe, I force my hand from her breast and step back with a shake of my head. “I don’t want to be a cheat meal. That’s not my style.”

  Her lashes flutter and her breath rushes out. “What?”

  “I don’t do one-night stands or one-afternoon stands or whatever this would be.” I motion between us before crossing my arms at my chest, the better to keep my traitorous hands from reaching for her again.

  “You’re turning down casual, nostrings-attached sex?” she asks, brow furrowing. “Are you for real?”

  I incline my head. “I am.”

  She huffs. “You realize any other man on the planet would be high-fiving himself and tripping over his pants because he couldn’t get his dick out of them fast enough. You get that, right?”

  I stand up straighter. “You’ve got a low opinion of men.”

  “I have an accurate opinion of men,” she says, a wounded note creeping into her voice. “But whatever. Fine. I won’t bother you again.”

  “You aren’t—”

  “No, it’s fine. Really,” she cuts me off, fumbling for the door handle. “I’ll be in my room. Let me know if you need help with the mannequins. Sorry again about that.”

  She retreats inside, dashing across the living room toward the steps so quickly that by the time I close the door behind me, she’s already out of sight.

  I run a clawed hand through my hair with a sigh.

  Sometimes I wish I were like those men Diana was talking about—guys who can separate sex and feelings and fuck a woman they’re attracted to without getting attached. But I’m not, and despite what my dick has to say about it, this is for the best.

  For the best, for the best, for the best…

  I repeat the mantra as I scan the living room for Wanda, finding nothing but an empty enclosure and a pile of pink blankets in front of the television, where she likes to watch Good Morning America. Figuring she must be out in the backyard, I start for the stairs, intending to make my way swiftly past Diana’s room and into my own, where I will ignore the mannequins until I’ve had a long, cold, hard-on softening shower.

  I seriously have no plan to pause at Diana’s door, let alone intrude on her privacy.

  But then she screams—a high-pitched howl of terror that shatters the silence of the sleepy summer afternoon—and I act without thinking. Before I realize I’ve turned the doorknob, I’m inside her room, running around the bed as Diana streaks out of the bathroom with Wanda hot on her heels.

  I have a split second to realize that Diana is naked—every toned, sun-kissed inch of her bare, save for the few inches covered by the washcloth she’s clutched to her chest—and then she’s in my arms.

  I lift her into the air, out of reach of my poorly behaved piglet.

  “She was hiding behind the door,” Diana squeals, clinging to my neck. “She was hiding there, waiting for me! And then she jumped out, snapping her teeth like something out of a fucking nightmare!”

  “Bad pig. Very bad pig!” I shout, the unusually loud scolding sending Wanda scamperi
ng across the carpet and out the door, wailing like she’s the one who was ambushed on her way to the shower.

  “Close the door,” Diana gasps. “Oh please, hurry. Close the door before she can get back in.”

  I cross the room, Dee still clinging to my neck, and kick the door closed.

  Only then, when we are well and truly alone, do I glance down at the very naked, very beautiful, very sexy woman in my arms.

  Our eyes meet, awareness burns hot and fierce in air between us, and my last gasp of willpower evaporates in a puff of steam.

  And apparently the self-control-defeating disease is catching…

  “Fine, let’s do this, Muscle Boy,” Diana says.

  A moment later, my mouth is devouring hers and I’m aiming us both for her bed.

  Chapter Eight

  Diana

  You can’t do this! You can’t! You have to stop! Now!

  A hundred exclamatory sentences sound off between my ears, but the only things coming out of my mouth are sighs and moans and gasps as Tanner tosses me on the bed and strips off his shirt, revealing the most beautiful torso I’ve ever seen. There are muscles—so many delicious muscle-y muscles—but it’s the elegant, streamlined arrangement of the muscles as they ripple from his broad shoulders down to his narrow waist that takes my breath away.

  He’s a work of art, a thing of beauty I would feel compelled to photograph immediately if I weren’t so desperate to touch him, taste him, and feel his skin hot and hungry against mine.

  “I want to memorize your chest with my tongue,” I murmur in a lust-fogged voice.

  “I want to memorize your pussy with mine,” he responds, sending electricity zapping between my legs.

  “Oh, yes, that sounds good.” I moan as he stretches himself out on top of me, nudging my thighs apart in a proprietary way that’s sexy as hell. And then he lowers his hips, pressing his erection against me through his shorts as he whispers “Guess I lied about that hard-on,” into my ear, and I’m gone.

  All the pent up sexual frustration of the past eight months comes roaring to the surface. I’m like a juice-faster thrown into a room full of steak and donuts—ravenous to the point of violence.